The Sword of Attila by David Gibbins Page B

ocean, the waves slapping against the bows and the full force of the north-easterly wind bearing down on them. The captain bellowed, the rowers extended their oars and the kettle drum in the stern began to resonate, the giant black-skinned drummer giving a beat each time the oars struck the water. The pace increased as they rounded the promontory and the captain heaved the steering oar to set course for Rome. A sheet of spray came over the bows and drenched them, a welcome cleansing after the dust of the city. Flavius used the water to wipe clean the blade of the
gladius,
sliding it into the empty scabbard beneath his cloak. As soon as he could he would take some olive oil from the ship’s cook, to keep it from rusting.
    He saw Arturus watching him, nodded and then braced himself as the galley began to rise and fall with the heave of the sea. He remembered the old coin he had found on the quayside and took it out of his pouch, holding it up to the sunlight. It was silver, but it had lost its glint, the metal covered by the patina of the ages. On the other side from the goddess he could just make out two horsemen and a small dog, and beneath them the single word ROMA . He remembered the freshly minted gold coins that he had distributed to the men of the
numerus
before the battle, the head of the emperor Valentinian on one side, stolid, thick-necked, and on the other side the emperor in armour with his foot on the snake holding the orb and the cross. He knew that the silver coin dated from ancient times, from the time of great victories and conquests, of generals like Scipio and Caesar whom they believed they could never emulate. Yet at this moment, with the adrenalin of battle still in his veins, the coin seemed spectral, like the walls they had just passed through, the colour sucked out of it, a thing of the past. He thought about what Arturus had said. If Rome were to survive as more than just a relic, she needed to plan ahead. Those coins of Valentinian seemed to say that, resplendent in gold, the images drawing on the strength of tradition but looking forward; here was an emperor in the venerated armour of the legionaries yet holding down a new enemy and raising the symbols of a new religion, of a new world order that could shape Rome for the future. He only hoped that the image of the emperor would not be belied by reality, something few could judge who had not been allowed into the emperor’s increasingly remote inner court in the palaces of Ravenna and Milan.
    The bishop was already being seasick over the stern of the galley, and the girl with the curly hair was watching him, her attention rapt, waiting to see what he would do with the coin. He thought for a moment, and then tossed the old silver coin far out to sea, back to join the detritus of history where it belonged. Now was the time for the soldiers of Rome to grasp their sword hilts and face a new enemy, not to wallow in the lost glories of the past. He stared at the girl, and then looked back at his men. His wound throbbed and he ached in every bone in his body, but the spray had invigorated him. He would take his place among the rowers as soon as the first man tired. It was going to be a long haul home.

PART TWO

ROME, ITALY
    AD 449
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    Flavius looked on with bemused fascination as the Goth infantry advanced in blocks, forming a stationary line on the high ground while the cavalry ranged up on either side of them. It was a classic manoeuvre, straight out of the textbooks, something that commanders had been taught to do since the wars against Hannibal. It was also wrong, so badly wrong that Flavius began to despair that he would ever get this particular set of future generals to desist from nocturnal distractions and do their homework. He sighed, and watched the Roman forces deploy slightly more accurately on the opposing hill, the seven legions occupying the crest, the
lanciarii
and the
mattiarii,
the mace-armed infantry, in the centre,